


House Rules

by seashadows



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Leonard McCoy had sat next to Spock on the shuttle, instead of James Kirk? </p><p>This is what might have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
“For your own safety, sit down or I’ll _make_ you sit down!”  
  
Leonard McCoy couldn’t exactly help scowling at her. Irresponsible little thing. Called herself a flight officer? Didn’t she realize how dangerous shuttles were? He would have rather taken a transporter, and he’d avoided _those_ like the plague.  
  
That glare looked pretty threatening, though. God _dammit_. Fixing his face into what others would probably see as a slightly less threatening expression, McCoy glanced up and down the rows – no, he wasn’t sitting next to the goddamn beat-up kid, he’d probably want medical care and McCoy _definitely_ wasn’t up to that now – finally choosing a seat next to some stern-looking guy in a black uniform. At least _he_ wouldn’t bother a divorcé on the way to some godforsaken academy. Looked like it, anyway.  
  
Of course, his stomach had to get in the way of an uneventful ride over. He’d _planned_ to be as quiet as possible, but no. “I may throw up on you,” he groaned, one hand clamped against his upset stomach as though to soothe both it and his racing heart. Jocelyn had just laughed at his aviophobia, said it was all in his head, but the sudden nausea and pounding in said head proved the contrary, thank you _very_ goddamn much. At least he could give the poor bastard a warning, even if gory images of accident victims were running through his addled brain.  
  
“The probability that an accident will occur on board a shuttle of this class is approximately zero point zero zero six percent,” his neighbor said coolly. Wiseass. “It is illogical to concern yourself with negligible statistics.”  
  
“Don’t pander to me, kid,” McCoy grumbled, glaring at his lap. “I suffer from _aviophobia_. You know what that means, don’t’cha? It means fear of _dyin’_ in somethin’ that flies!”  
  
“I am aware of the meaning of the word ‘aviophobia’,” Smart-Ass Bastard replied. McCoy peered ( _glowered_ , actually) at him through the safety-strap bars, ready to give him a piece of his mind; what the hell was wrong with him, correcting a man in the throes of a phobia? If Starfleet let in idiots like that, it was no wonder…  
  
What he saw made his thoughts screech to a stop in their misguided tracks. He was looking at a _Vulcan_ , a real live Vulcan. One of the few species for which he’d had some medical training, but never been able to study or treat up close. “Hey,” he said.  
  
Smart-Ass Vulcan Bastard raised an eyebrow at him. “Greetings are illogical, considering that we have spoken for ten point six nine seconds,” he said. “However, as you are human, I will defer to your customs. I am Spock.”  
  
McCoy blinked. Defer to _his_ customs? He hadn’t exactly heard that one before. “McCoy,” he managed. “Leonard McCoy.”  
  
“Are you aware that Starfleet operates primarily in space?” Spock said – not _asked_ ; it seemed to be more of a rhetorical question. “If you are not, I recommend that you do not enlist.”  
  
Yeah, like he didn’t already know that? “Can’t,” McCoy told him. “My ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is my bones.” And the flask of bourbon in his inside pocket, but he wasn’t gonna go telling Pointy-Ears about _that_. Probably ruin any chance he had of enlisting, aviophobia or no.  
  
“Ooh, _bones_. Poetic, dude.” Ah, great. McCoy spun around and scowled at the beat-up blond kid, who was amusing himself by poking the back of McCoy’s neck. “Mind if I call you that?”  
  
“Yes, goddammit, I mind! Ain’t you got any manners, kid?” Blondie looked like he’d been raised in a barn. Probably _had_ , considering this was, oh, _Iowa_. “Sit the fuck back down.”  
  
“Jesus, _Bones_ , who spit in your beer?” the kid quipped. Still, he did stop poking McCoy’s neck. “I’m Jim Kirk.”  
  
“My name’s not Bones, and you better not go thinkin’ I’m gonna patch you up,” McCoy said, indicating the bruises on Kirk’s neck.  
  
“Yeah?” Kirk swung an elbow over the back of his seat – idiot had his safety bars off. “Are you a doctor?”  
  
“Uh-huh. Gonna be a doctor in Starfleet, too, if they don’t make me go out on some old wobbly flyin’ death trap.” Ugh, just the _words_ made his stomach pitch again; not as bad as it had been, though. The Vulcan kid seemed to be a good distraction.  
  
“What, you’d prefer a _new_ wobbly flyin’ death trap?” Yeah, proof positive that this kid wasn’t going to go into linguistics, whatever else he might consider. His imitation of McCoy’s Georgia accent (well, _other_ people said he had an accent; he sounded fine, fuck you very much) was terrible. “Those are probably safer.”  
  
“Ever heard of a starbase, smartass?” McCoy shot back. “Figure I’m either fixin’ to go to one of those or get a post in a Starfleet hospital somewhere.”  
  
“A logical decision, Doctor,” the Vulcan chimed in from his left. “On average, only thirty-two point seven percent of doctors in any given class volunteer to be given a non-exploratory assignment.”  
  
Well, well – it looked like _someone_ on this shuttle had a brain in his pointy-eared head. “Damn straight,” McCoy said in vague agreement, swiveling around to give Spock another look. “You’re sensible ‘bout stuff, Vulcan.”  
  
“My name is not ‘Vulcan’, as I stated previously,” Spock said. One eyebrow rose in what looked like a reprimand. “I am Lieutenant Commander Spock.”  
  
Kirk whistled from behind them. “Fraternizing with the higher-ups, Bones? That’s against regulations.”  
  
He was going to give himself whiplash if this stupid swinging around to look at people continued. “Oh, what would _you_ know about regulations, you blond bastard?” The kid looked like he’d never even heard the word ‘Starfleet’ before today; McCoy knew the type.  
  
“My mom’s in the ‘Fleet.” Kirk shrugged, somehow conveying both mischief and nonchalance. Looked like he could give Lieutenant Commander Eyebrows in the next seat a run for his money in terms of saying a lot with a little.  
  
“Well, y’learn somethin’ new every day,” McCoy said. Speaking of Lieutenant Commander Eyebrows, wasn’t this a cadet shuttle? “What’re you doin’ here, anyway?” he asked, turning around (again), then backtracked. “I mean, ain’t this just for cadets?”  
  
Spock shook his head. “Captain Pike requested that I accompany him on this recruiting mission,” he said. “I have been an instructor at Starfleet Academy for zero point nine three seven Terran Standard years.”  
  
“A teacher? _Nice_ ,” Kirk said. McCoy could almost hear the cogs grinding in his pretty gold head. Kids like this were all the same: they invariably thought fucking a professor would lead to good grades, when all it led to was a whole fuckton of red tape and tears on both sides. He’d TA’d enough freshman biology classes at Ole Miss to know that. “Whatcha teach, _Commander?_ ”  
  
“I teach Advanced Phonology and Interspecies Ethics.” Spock aimed an eyebrow at him. Clearly, he was onto Kirk and his oh-so-obvious thoughts of seduction. McCoy had to give him credit for that.  
  
“Right, right, I get it. ‘Cause you’re Vulcan, so you’re trying to better understand _interspecies ethics_ , right?” He wiggled his eyebrows.  
  
McCoy slammed his hand down on his armrest, making Spock tense up slightly – well, he’d apologize later. “The man ain’t interested, can’t you see that? Let him the fuck alone!”  
  
“Jee _-zus_ , blunt much?” The kid rolled his eyes, but he did turn back around, _finally_. Even if he was mumbling something rude under his breath.  
  
McCoy spared him only a blink or two before looking at Spock again. “Sorry for blowin’ up. He was just pissin’ me off with all the, well…” He waved a hand in the air, indicating he didn’t know what; flirting, innuendo, maybe? “Yeah. He shouldn’t’a hit on you.”  
  
Spock made a motion with one shoulder that could have been a fraction of a shrug. “His words were of little consequence. However, he was incorrect on one point. I am half-Vulcan rather than fully Vulcan.”  
  
“ _Shit._ ” Forget hitting the floor; McCoy could feel his jaw drop all the way to the center of the goddamn planet (the planet that Jocelyn _took_ , fuck her). “Didn’t know they could even do that.” Come to think of it, Spock _did_ have more expressive eyes than the Vulcans he’d seen, in the few holos his med-school instructors had managed to find. Lighter, too, a little.  
  
“To whom and what do you refer, Doctor?”  
  
It took McCoy a minute to get his brain together for an answer. “Vulcans and humans, I mean. Didn’t know they could make a kid together.”  
  
“The phenomenon did not simply happen,” Spock said. “A great deal of work went into the creation of a successful hybrid.” Huh. McCoy noted the phrasing: _successful_ hybrid. This guy knew a little about biology, then, at least; stuff happened, but it took wrangling to make _good_ stuff happen. He felt sorry for the kid’s mama, though, having to deal with such a sardonic little wisecracker all the live-fucking-long day.  
  
“Is your mother human or Vulcan?” he asked, off that train of thought.  
  
Spock made some kind of movement that might have been a twitch. Or the build-up to a minor stroke – did Vulcans have those? McCoy couldn’t remember, all of a sudden. “My mother is human.”  
  
“That’s interesting.” That must’ve been where Spock got his eyes – a human mother. Well, they were pretty, at any rate.  
  
Wait, _pretty?_ That thought must’ve been his aviophobia fucking around with him or something, or… “Dammit.” At the very thought of aviophobia, McCoy’s stomach lodged another complaint against the rest of his internal organs and pitched against the safety bars; he grimaced, clenching his jaw in a concerted effort _not_ to throw up.  
  
If this guy was a commander, he could probably make his life in Starfleet hell if he wanted to, and getting someone else’s projectile vomit on his shoes would be a trigger by anyone’s standards. McCoy breathed in deeply through his nose, closing his eyes, as his thoughts scrambled for some, any, other handhold. Better. That was a little better.  
  
“You are unwell.” Spock’s voice cut through the thick haze of nausea and general misery, clear, sharp, and welcome. “Have you not been referred to a professional for treatment? Allowing it to control you unchecked is illogical.”  
  
“Nnh, fuck _that_.” He cautiously cracked open an eyelid and, finding the shuttle steady again (if not completely stable; anything was better than rolling vision), opened the other. “I tried. The meds just made me paranoid.”  
  
“That is unfortunate.”  
  
“Mm-hm.” McCoy closed his eyes again, just for a second, to let the calm wash over him again. “Coulda just used a hypospray and took this away, but no.”  
  
There was a pause before Spock spoke again. “What is your specialty, Doctor?”  
  
“Uh?” He blinked, stupidly, as the question oriented itself in his brain. “Surgery, sorta. I just finished my surgery residency when the divorce happened. Did too many projects to specialize just yet.” And maybe he could’ve gone on to cardiology or something, but she took _everything_. “Guess I’ll find out if I’ll specialize at the Academy.”  
  
“Logical.”  
  
“What is that, your catchphrase or somethin’? Jesus,” McCoy grumbled, settling down a little deeper in his seat. “This’n’that’s logical. Bet I’m _illogical_.”  
  
“To deem you so before I fully understood your situation would be illogical, Doctor,” Spock answered.  
  
McCoy chuckled. “Looks like you and me, we might get along after all, kid.”  
  
“Indeed,” Spock said after a short pause.  
  
“Mm. So, what is it you do?”  
  
“I am trained in scientific endeavors,” Spock said, “specializing in physical, biochemical, and astrochemical sciences.”  
  
“Impressive,” McCoy said, and whistled. All of a sudden, his degree in allopathic medicine didn’t seem all that remarkable; wasn’t like he’d gone to get _his_ education on some other planet, offworld vaccination programs or no, neural-tissue research or no. _Mental note: if Jocelyn ever opens up the fuckin’ comm lines, see if Jo can go off-planet sometime._ “Your parents are probably proud.”  
  
He blinked when Spock’s shoulders stiffened; the motion was tiny, nearly invisible, but it was there. Not on good terms with the folks, huh? McCoy’d been there. “They are satisfied with the progress that I have made.”  
  
“Ah, that ain’t ever good enough,” he said, and resisted the urge to clap Spock on the shoulder. Still, the kid had proven himself to be a little _less_ uptight than he’d thought at first, so maybe... “Here.” He drew his flask out of his jacket, unscrewing the top and wiping it off before offering it to Spock. “It’s good.”  
  
Spock blinked. “You intend to become inebriated?”  
  
“Nah.” McCoy shook his head. “It’s diluted.” There hadn’t been much left of his last bottle when he enlisted; he’d had to water it down to make it last. Even more than the alcoholic content, he loved the fine _taste_ of bourbon, and that wasn’t something you could just gulp down.  
  
He could have sworn he saw one corner of Spock’s mouth move upwards a fraction of a millimeter. “I thank you,” he said, and took the flask. 

~

  
  
“I’m sorry, _sir_ , but we’re at capacity at the moment.”  
  
“Oh, come _on!_ ” McCoy glared at the smarmy little jackass who called himself Starfleet – what kind of officer couldn’t find lodging in a tight situation? Wasn’t that one of the things they taught here? “You found that blond kid a place, didn’t’cha?” He jerked a thumb in Jim’s direction; he was walking away with some other cadet, presumably a roommate.  
  
“ _Sir_ ” – and there was that fucking sarcastic tone again – “our current cadet classes are not small. We could barely find places for _them_ , and they were accepted through the…” McCoy could swear that the man’s eyes traveled up and down, giving his rumpled clothes and disheveled hair a once-over. “…normal channels.”  
  
 _Normal?_ So just because he wasn’t some recent high-school graduate, _this_ one thought he was a washout? Ridiculous! And a lot of other adjectives he couldn’t even bring himself to _think_ , let alone say. “Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “it’s crowded. I know. But…I gotta stay somewhere.”  
  
“There are off-campus apartments,” the housing officer said primly. “Extenuating circumstances arranged Cadet Kirk’s housing. You, unfortunately –“  
  
“I ain’t got _money_ for no apartment,” McCoy growled. He could tell his accent was coming out, but he didn’t give a shit at this point. “That’s why I’m _here._ ”  
  
“Doctor McCoy?”  
  
Even after only an hour or two hearing it, McCoy recognized that voice. “Spock,” he said, surprised, as he turned around to face the Vulcan. “What are you doin’ here?”  
  
“It is my habit to observe behavioral patterns in new cadet classes,” Spock answered, lifting an eyebrow. “Have you encountered a problem?”  
  
“Hell, yes!” It felt good to finally let out some of his frustration, and McCoy seized the opportunity like a stress ball. “Officer Whatever over here says there’s no housing, when ever’ other cadet runnin’ through here got an assignment, even Smartass from the shuttle.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Spock’s eyebrow hardly moved, but even that slight change in expression seemed to freak the hell out of the housing officer. “Commander,” he began, “we’re honestly at capacity. Check the records office if you want proof, but there’s no place to put Cadet…?”  
  
“McCoy,” Spock interjected before McCoy could get a word in edgewise. “The cadet’s full title is Doctor Leonard McCoy.”  
  
“Doctor?” The incredulous look in the officer’s eyes said more plainly than any words how much he doubted it. “Well. We are unable to offer Cadet McCoy housing right now, due to our large incoming class. I’m sure you understand.”  
  
“I do understand,” Spock said. McCoy’s mouth dropped open, but before he could yell at the kid for pulling a Benedict Vulcan on him, he went and surprised him again. “I will take charge of the doctor’s housing, Lieutenant Commander Simmons. You need not overburden yourself.”  
  
McCoy noted the rank similarity in the small part of his brain that _wasn’t_ bowled over by what Spock had just said. Jesus, you know a guy for two hours, and he offers to find you a place to stay? Not bad for an ice king. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, but he could tell both he and Spock knew it was halfhearted, judging by the way Spock’s eyebrow shot up in his direction.  
  
“It is not an imposition,” Spock said. Somehow, the tone of his voice, while hardly different, was reassuring, and McCoy felt himself relax a little. “Doctor, there is no further need for you to remain here.”  
  
“Damn straight. Let’s go wherever.”  
  
McCoy turned on his heel and followed Spock as he left the administrations building, striding across the neat green quad on those inhumanly (and in-Vulcanly, maybe) long legs of his. “Wait a second, Spock,” he said, speeding up a little to catch up – he was as tall as Spock, but the way he was walking made McCoy feel downright puny. “Where exactly are we goin’?”  
  
Spock stopped and turned around. “There is a spare sleeping area in my living quarters,” he answered. “You may remain there until such time as you are able to find alternate housing.”  
  
“Wait, _what?_ ” He blinked a few times. “You want me to stay in _your_ place? Ain’t that gonna be a hell of an inconvenience? Or against the rules, or somethin’?” Not to mention they hardly _knew_ each other.  
  
“Regulations permit cadets over twenty-one years of age to find their own housing, should they prefer to do so,” Spock said. “You are unable to live in an apartment due to your financial situation, and my living quarters have ample space for you. Your records show that you are of sound mind and body and pose no danger to me. Therefore, it is only logical that I offer you lodging.”  
  
“Uh.” Okay, so _that_ was scarily well thought-out, and when had Spock had time to get to his records, anyway? Damn Vulcans. But whatever this kid had going on in his head, _his_ apartment was probably going to be cleaner than any shithole McCoy could find on his own. “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “You want I should pay you rent or somethin’? I could maybe try to get a job.”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Rent is unnecessary, as I do not pay for my housing. It is provided to me as a privilege of my position as an instructor.”  
  
 _Real roundabout way of saying ‘No thanks, I’m a teacher’, there_. McCoy barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes, even as Spock started back along their path. “Where’s your apartment?”  
  
“We will reach it within three standard minutes, at our current pace.” _More like_ your _current pace_ \- why couldn’t he slow the hell down? “Officer housing is located behind the upper-class dormitories.”  
  
McCoy only nodded – seriously, if he could avoid any more of the fact-spouting that Spock seemed to get off on, well, he’d shut up.  
  
Spock’s apartment turned out to be on the ground floor of a neat, old-style brick building just behind a truly ass-ugly dorm – number 101, McCoy noticed as Spock was inputting his code into the access panel, and couldn’t suppress a grin. If you wanted a new start, well, you couldn’t get any more back-to-basics than that number. What was this class – Vulcans 101? Logic for Life Scientists? Sounded like something he maybe could’ve taken in college. Well, if his thoughts were right, this Spock kid was going to be a whole class in and of himself.  
  
The door slid open. “You may follow me, Doctor,” Spock said, and rolling his eyes, McCoy did so. Wasn’t half bad, actually…a little small, yeah, but impeccably clean; every flat surface was gleaming (no surprise there). A short entranceway opened into a decent-sized living room and kitchenette, with two doors leading off to what he guessed were a bedroom and a bathroom. Pretty nondescript colors; gray carpet, gray linoleum, beige sofa, walls that were a strange shade of off-white/pale yellow/some variety of beige.  
  
Huh. He never knew that so many shades of bland could actually make his eyes hurt; clearly, Spock had either made do with the Starfleet-issue furniture or had absolutely no personality. Given their interactions, McCoy was inclined to doubt the latter, even with the Vulcanspeak. “So do I sleep on the floor?” he asked, leaning on one leg. “I don’t mind.” At least it would be a _place_ where he could rest his sorry ass, and not worry about some bum running off with his clothes if he didn’t keep an eye open.  
  
“You may do so if you wish, but the sofa folds into an adequate sleeping space,” Spock replied. Oh. _Good_. He wouldn’t have minded, not _really_ , but the floor probably would have killed his back after a while. Surgery when you weren’t feeling your absolute best, or even learning some xenobio that could save lives one day, was a _bad_ idea; he’d learned that damn fact early on, although luckily it had been as a result of watching others. And his dad’s complaining.  
  
“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” McCoy said, stretching a still shuttle-cramped arm over his head. “So I’m all registered for classes and clinicals and shit. What should I be doin’?”  
  
Spock tilted his head, just slightly; that movement was enough to make McCoy feel like he needed a shower or five zillion. “I suggest that you use the time before your classes begin to purchase clothing for yourself.”  
  
“Jesus. How many times do I gotta tell you I got no money?” Did Spock have to rub it in that he looked more like a drunk than a doctor, variable definitions notwithstanding? He probably needed to give the kid an ear exam or something, too.  
  
“You do have money,” Spock said, one eyebrow going up as though he couldn’t believe how many stupid humans he had to work with. “As a cadet under the jurisdiction of Starfleet Medical, you receive a monthly stipend of one hundred credits in addition to the previously enumerated benefits.”  
  
“ _No._ Really?” Now why couldn’t Pike have said something about that when he gave McCoy the standard enlistment drivel? Would’ve made him decide to join up a damn sight sooner. “I don’t believe it.”  
  
“If you access your student account, you will find that I told you the truth.” Spock indicated the Starfleet-issue PADD that McCoy was holding; it had been given to him during the settling-in merry-go-round he’d had to go through for the past hour and a half.  
  
“Yeah, okay. How do I get that stuff up on this thing?” McCoy raised a brow of his own at the PADD. Fucking technology.  
  
“An icon on the screen is marked ‘Student Information. It is a standard component of the pre-programmed PADDs given to cadets.”  
  
“Mm-hm,” McCoy muttered, and tapped the screen to shake it awake. Sure enough – “Student Information.” He tapped it.  
  
Cadet: McCoy, Leonard Horatio, MD.  
Account Balance: 100C.  
  
“Well,” he said, a slow smile twitching at his mouth, “would you look at that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy settles in.

It didn’t take half a night before McCoy learned the true meaning of “trade-off,” at least when it came to housemates. Spock was a nice guy, or as “nice” as a Vulcan could actually be, and he was letting McCoy use his couch. He also wasn’t some messy high-school kid.   
  
However, he snored like a fucking buzz saw.   
  
Well…not _exactly_ like a buzz saw, if McCoy was going to be accurate about it. More like a combination of a saw and an old-fashioned teakettle whistling. He’d panicked out of a sound sleep the first night he’d heard it, thinking the house was on fire before realizing that no, it wasn’t some weird fire alarm after all; it was actually made by a human being, or some combination thereof. And either he needed some earplugs or Starfleet needed to invest in some thicker walls, because he could hear those snores even with the damn pillow over his head.   
  
Spock was also very much _not_ a morning person, teacher or no. That was more subtle to figure out, and a lot less annoying; Introduction to Intergalactic Clinical Ethics started at eight in the morning, which meant that McCoy had to wake up at about six-thirty if he didn’t want to look like he’d rolled out of bed and been dragged through a bramble bush after. He was never conscious enough to do more than shove a bowl of cereal down his throat (looked like hay, tasted…not too bad, actually), but he could _swear_ he heard something like a tired groan from the direction of Spock’s room, followed by the unmistakable _flump_ of a pillow hitting a head. Hilarious.   
  
Still, it was a comfortable place to sleep and it had good lighting (if a little _too_ well-lit in the mornings – why did the sun have to shine right into his eyes, dammit?), and two weeks had passed before McCoy knew it. Strangely enough, he was actually…well, _content_ with the way things were going thus far, which explained why he was filling out a pre-observation report at the all-purpose table in Spock’s apartment (on a Thursday night, no less) instead of camping out in the student center.   
  
He checked the diagram that Professor Chelli’han had included with the report – a routine tonsillectomy on an Andorian male turned out to be a little more complicated, due to their differing uvular structure – and frowned. Damn. He needed to check the readout on his tricorder, and the thing was nowhere to be found; he could have sworn he put it on this table last night. “Spock?” he called, head still bent over his PADD.   
  
“Yes?” came the reply from the direction of the sofa (it turned out that comfort was logical when grading essays from an Interspecies Ethics class; who knew?).   
  
“You seen my tricorder? I’m observin’ a surgery tomorrow and I need to check it.”   
  
There was a silence, and even though it had only been a _week_ he’d known Spock, that was a long enough period of time that McCoy _knew_ the pause meant Spock had done something with it. His frown grew even deeper until Spock finally said, composed as usual, “I dismantled it to learn its capabilities.”   
  
“ _What?_ ” He whipped around, mouth dropping open. “Are you out of your Vulcan mind?”   
  
“I assure you, Doctor, that my sanity remains unaff –“   
  
“Don’t give me that,” McCoy snapped. Holy _shit_. Chelli’han was going to fucking _kill_ him for being unprepared – he’d spent the entire first class talking about the importance of punctuality and preparedness. “God _dammit_ , Spock, I’m observin’ a surgery tomorrow! You ever stop to think that maybe I need my medical supplies?”   
  
“Calm yourself, Doctor,” Spock said. _Bastard._ “You said nothing about the surgery, and it is illogical to expect that I can ascertain your schedule with no prior knowledge thereof. In addition, you placed your tricorder in a public area of the apartment and it was therefore logical to assume that you did not need it. Thirdly, I can easily repair the device.”   
  
McCoy sighed, rubbing his forehead. Did Spock not understand _any_ social cues? Jesus. “That ain’t the _point_ , Spock. You _took_ a piece of my medical equipment without thinkin’ I might need it, and just took it apart!” Yeah, he could still finish the assignment, still observe the surgery without getting into a mess of trouble, but that Spock had taken it in the first place… _shit_ , it just pissed him off. There were some boundaries you just didn’t cross, and messing with someone else’s technology was one of them, or so everyone _but_ Spock apparently knew. “Look. Just fix it and give it back.”   
  
Spock looked as though he was about to say something else, but after a second or two, he nodded instead. “Very well, Doctor,” he said, a note of tightness in his voice. A stab of worry invaded the frustration and anger in McCoy’s head; had he pissed him off? _Shit_ , he was mad, but this was his only living space, and making his housemate mad wasn’t exactly the best idea if he wanted to keep staying there. “I will repair your tricorder tonight.”   
  
“Fine. Whenever.” McCoy turned back to his PADD; he could probably do the pre-op report without testing the diagnostics, and just wake up early or something if it took Spock a while to put the tricorder back together. Why’d he have to stick his foot in his mouth? Not biting the hand that fed you was apparently not his strong suit.   
  
After a while, he heard Spock get up from the sofa, his bedroom door quietly sliding shut a moment later. Probably went to meditate or take a nap or grade papers quietly, or whatever it was Vulcans did at five o’clock on Thursday evenings. The diagram of the Andorian throat, however, was more engrossing than whatever Spock had on his mind, so much so that McCoy didn’t even look up when he heard a quiet throat-clearing behind him some time after that (could have been half an hour, could have been three hours; he’d already figured out that Chelli’han’s assignments were engrossing enough to transcend time). “Yeah?” he said absently, tracing the shape of the trachea with one finger.   
  
“Doctor, I have repaired your tricorder.”   
  
“Y’have? That was fast.” _Someone_ had his priorities arranged right today. McCoy turned around to see Spock holding the tricorder stiffly in the palm of one hand. Not only was the thing whole again, but it was shinier than before, gleaming as if Spock had taken the time to clean it as well as put it back together. In spite of himself, he felt himself begin to smile. “Wow.”   
  
“In addition,” Spock said, “I also contacted my mother and made an inquiry of her as to the proper protocol concerning a housemate.”   
  
The thought of Spock talking to his human mama about how to interact with him, now that he’d mentioned it, was pretty damn hilarious. McCoy ducked his head for a moment to hide his growing grin. “And what’d she say?” he asked.   
  
“She suggested that you and I create a list of regulations.”   
  
“House rules? Not a bad idea.” McCoy raised an eyebrow; this woman knew what she was talking about, even if her son had no idea of humans’ boundaries. “I’m ‘bout done with my work. You wanna draw those up now?”   
  
Spock nodded. “To do so would be logical.”   
  
Right. He couldn’t just say ‘yes’ like a normal person? McCoy couldn’t help shaking his head. “Okay, sit down,” he said, indicating the chair next to him and opening up a new document on his PADD. Spock did so, albeit with a posture nearly as stiff as the one he kept standing. “I’m gonna say the first rule should be no touchin’ each other’s stuff without permission.”   
  
“Very well,” Spock said, and McCoy wrote _1\. No touching each other’s things without permission_ in the document. He hadn’t really expected that Spock would object, not after what had just happened with the tricorder, but it still felt nice to hear him agree for some reason. “May I suggest the next addition?”   
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
“I suggest that the hygienic facilities be kept clean at all times.”   
  
“Hm? Oh, you mean the bathroom? Sure. That’s a good idea.” Looked like he’d have to be more careful where he aimed in the morning, even if he _was_ only half-awake; McCoy felt his cheeks heat up a little. Spock had probably noticed that. _2\. Keep the bathroom clean_ , he wrote. “Anything else?”   
  
Spock’s brows furrowed slightly in obvious concentration. “My mother said that the majority of lists such as these contain rules concerning guests.”   
  
“Right. Forgot about that.” McCoy ran a hand through his hair as he thought. “Well, you can’t always plan for when someone’s gonna want to come over, so how ‘bout just saying ‘ _try_ to give a fair warning’?” Jim Kirk, the shuttle smartass, was already pestering him about ‘hanging out together like BFFs’ or some such nonsense when their paths crossed in Introductory Astrochemistry. Why the kid had chosen _him_ to latch onto, he’d never know; probably some kind of daddy issue or medical kink, neither of which he’d put past him.   
  
“That is logical,” Spock conceded after a second’s pause. “Very well. An unsuccessful attempt to formulate a plan is better than no attempt at all. You may include such a rule.”   
  
“Fine.” _3\. Try to give reasonable notice about people coming over_ , he wrote. “I’d suggest sayin’ keep our spaces neat, but that hasn’t seemed to be a problem so far.” Not to mention the fact that he didn’t really have any stuff, besides the few pieces of secondhand clothing that lived in a neatly stacked pile on the floor. He’d had the feeling that asking Spock for dresser space, in _his_ personal space, was a bad idea; Spock hadn’t complained so far, so he figured the pile was all right.   
  
“Indeed, you do not seem to be careless regarding your personal items,” Spock said. McCoy blushed at the unspoken mention of the tricorder incident, _very_ apparent in the way Spock’s eyebrow went up. “Have you no other ideas?”   
  
“Mm…nope. That’s pretty much it,” McCoy said, shrugging. “Seems like we hit all the bases.”   
  
The Eyebrow in Question, if possible, went up even more. “Pardon me, but I am unaware of a metaphor that involves _bases_. Do you refer to nucleotide bases or to basic chemical compounds?”   
  
Basic _chemical compounds?_ Was Spock seriously that out of it? McCoy’s grin grew despite trying to hold it back; he chuckled, decided it was futile to try to hold that back, either, and burst out in howls of laughter that doubled him over in his seat. “Ow,” he gasped as his chest hit the edge of the table. “ _Shit_ , Spock. Really?”   
  
“Really _what_ , Doctor?” The tone of Spock’s voice was somewhere between disapproving and perplexed; it only made McCoy laugh all the harder. _Jesus_ , but Vulcans were funny sometimes, or at least this one was. “I said nothing intentionally humorous.”   
  
It took a while for McCoy to catch his breath long enough to answer the question. “I was askin’ if you really didn’t understand the idiom,” he said, rubbing his hand against his eyes to clear away the tears of laughter. That had felt _good_. “Hittin’ bases like _baseball_ , Spock. Didn’t your mother ever tell you what that is?”  
  
“She did. However, she is not exceptionally fond of the game and thus uses no metaphors pertaining to it.”   
  
“Oh. That makes sense.” It wasn’t as though McCoy was that much of a baseball fan himself. Sure, he liked it fine, but it got a little boring listening to his dad yell at some screen about a move he didn’t understand. “Anyway, ‘hitting all the bases’ means that you’ve covered all your points or achieved all your goals.”   
  
“I understand. The expression is not illogical.” Well, maybe it wasn’t as much of a compliment as outright ‘logical’, but McCoy’d take it. At least they’d gotten the rules drawn up without a fuss, and he could probably rest assured that Spock wouldn’t go touching his stuff again.   
  
“So,” he said rather awkwardly, breaking the short silence that followed, “how’re the papers goin’?”   
  
“They are adequate in quality,” Spock answered. If he’d been human, he probably would have shrugged; the way he almost imperceptibly twitched one shoulder was probably the closest he’d get. “Five are exceptionally well-written.”   
  
“Yeah? Class of how many?”   
  
“Twenty-six. It is, as Captain Pike says, an ‘off semester.’”   
  
“That’s not bad,” McCoy said. “Least it’s not one of those huge intro classes, three hundred, maybe. Those always kinda suck.” Biochemistry classes, now…those had been smaller, and he’d liked them a damn sight better than intro chem. Fewer morons.   
  
“Such classes do not exist on Vulcan,” Spock said. Was that a note of smugness in the pointy-eared bastard’s voice? God _dammit_ , it was. “Educational facilities are far more efficient.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get to use ‘em, so why don’t’cha shut up about how great they are?”   
  
“Your jealousy is understandable, Doctor,” Spock said, and McCoy felt his jaw drop. The son-of-a-bitch was _definitely_ rubbing his ‘superior educational facilities’ in his face. “If you will excuse me, I must complete my task.”   
  
“All right, _fine_ ,” McCoy grumbled, turning back to his assignment; still, the smile on his face was irrepressible as he looked at his tricorder again. Maybe Spock wasn’t so horrible, after all.   
  
If he didn’t stay out of McCoy’s medical supplies, though, they were going to have _words_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flu throws a wrench into McCoy's Starfleet life, but Spock is there to help.

  
Whoever said that California was sunny all the time was sorely fucking mistaken; as the rain intensified even more, pouring down in wet sheets onto his head, McCoy contemplated finding the nearest travel agency and kicking the shit out of the bastard who wrote the ads. Clinicals had run overtime – it was the beginning of flu season, and apparently Starfleet cadets couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, because the medical facilities were already overrun with sick people. By the time he administered the last vaccination and lowered the last fever of the day, it was not only getting dark, but raining, too.   
  
Just ducky, really, that he could barely see in front of his goddamn face. At least Starfleet General wasn’t far from the dorms, so there wasn’t _too_ much danger of falling over and breaking his neck on the sidewalk. Even so, he’d already been splashed with what felt like a gallon of mud, and his hair was soaked and dripping into his eyes. Now, stumbling up to the door of the apartment – 101, the letters glittered even through the rain – he rubbed his numb, shaking fingers together and keyed in the code. It would feel so good to finally get inside, dry off…  
  
Nothing.   
  
“What the _fuck?_ ” he muttered, frowning at the access panel and punching the numbers in again. “Open up, damn you!” The door, stubborn bastard that it was, ignored his orders and remained stubbornly closed. Jesus H. _Christ_ …of all the days to malfunction, it had to choose today. “Spock!” McCoy called out, pounding on the wet door with the flat of one hand. “Come _on_! I’m freezin’ out here!”   
  
There was no response. “Gahhh!” McCoy ran a hand through his sopping hair and let out a string of mostly-Standard curses that probably would have had Pike recanting his recruitment speech. “A’right. Lemme see…” He shucked off his bag with some difficulty, stuck as it was with the stubborn cling of wet cloth on wet cloth, and pulled out his PADD, intending to call Spock and find out how the hell to get inside – only to found out that the rain had warped the fucking screen so that he couldn’t make anything out beyond vague blurs. A few more obscenities spilled out as he shoved the now-useless piece of shit (or technology, depending on the situation; right now, it was shit) back into his bag. Great. So now he had no way of contacting Spock _and_ he was stuck in the rain, _and_ it was pounding down so hard that trying to go back to the clinic or the student center was probably a stupid idea if he didn’t want to fall over.   
  
So. Stuck between a rock and a hard place (unbidden, “that’s what she said” flashed through his mind, dammit, Jim); it seemed the best of the horrible options he had in front of him was to wait until Spock got back, _then_ light into him for locking him out. Whenever that might be, really; it was already weird that Spock wasn’t back at six in the evening, given his apparent lack of a social life. Had he gotten hurt? Was he sick? A fresh pang of panic shot its way through McCoy’s stomach, making him gulp. _Maybe I oughta sit down on the step until I think of something._ , he thought, and did so before his damn legs had a chance to give out on him.   
  
He was there maybe half an hour at most, shivering as the cold rain steadily soaked him to the bone and rubbing his hands up and down his arms in a useless attempt at warmth, before a pair of trim black-clad legs obscured his vision of absolutely nothing. “S-Spock?” he got out through chattering teeth, and tilted his head up. “I was locked out.”   
  
“I surmised as such. Are you able to stand?”   
  
Damn cold tone; pointy-eared bastard probably was just annoyed that there was an _illogical_ human clogging up his front doorstep. “Yeah,” he mumbled, and maneuvered his numb legs into some slumped semblance of a standing position. From here, he could see that Spock had one of those clear raincoats on…lucky kid. Even his hair looked barely disturbed beneath the plastic hood. “I tried p-puttin’ the code in, b-but it wouldn’t open.”   
  
“I was delayed by an impromptu meeting with Captain Thayan and was unable to tell you that I had changed the code,” Spock said, probably by way of explanation.   
  
“Why the fuckin’ _hell_ …” Really, he would have said a whole shit-ton more, but by then Spock had keyed in the code and he was _inside_ , finally, where it felt wonderfully warm after that time in the rain. All he could do was trail off into a mumble and plunk down on the floor.   
  
“It is recommended that one change the access code to one’s dwelling every three months.” Spock had gravitated towards the sofa, probably to grade more papers (and McCoy reckoned _his_ PADD wasn’t all water-damaged, either)…or maybe he was in the kitchen. He couldn’t really tell direction here on the bland-colored carpet. He closed his eyes for a second, just to make the room stop going all wet and crazy as water dripped off his eyelashes.   
  
“So why’n the hell dint’cha tell me you were _gonna_ change the damn code? I was out there in the _rain_ , Spock!” His nose was dripping, too, annoyingly so; he swiped at it with a soaked sleeve and blinked more water out of his eyes. “Couldn’t get ahold’a you or anythin’!”   
  
“I neglected to inform you of the change.” Just words; no excuses, at least. McCoy couldn’t stand excuses. “When I next change the code, I will do so.” There was a clink, like a cup against a counter – oh, so he _was_ in the kitchen. Warm little…bastard (McCoy could tell he was tired when even his _mind_ couldn’t make up a proper insult, dammit). “Do you wish for me to make tea?”   
  
Ughh. The only thing he really wanted right now was a hot shower and the chance to rest on the couch before he started reading up for the next day’s classes; not that he didn’t appreciate the offer. “No thanks. I just gotta warm up…you mind if I use the shower?”   
  
“Not at all, Doctor.”   
  
“Okay. Talk to you in a little, then.” McCoy heaved himself to his feet, leaving his wet bag on the ground (maybe Jim would be able to fix the busted PADD…no, scratch that, he probably could, because he’d already hacked the database to make the Astrochemistry grades display as Orion symbols) as he headed towards the bathroom.   
  
And either there was something wrong with the heater, or he’d have to spend some time getting up-to-date on his booster hypos, because no matter how far he cranked the shower dial to the left, he couldn’t get warm. _Shit._

~

  
  
The next two weeks, to put it quite simply, were hell on a stick.   
  
It was only _November_ , dammit, and McCoy’s professors already saw fit to put him through the horrors of finals, or what they deemed “midterms” (he called bullshit on that one, though – it was _way_ past midterm time, and they’d already proven their collective sadistic streak anyway, so why bother lying?). It also seemed that everyone _had_ to get injured right now, because it seemed like every day, he had to either patch up some halfway-serious wound or go into surgery for some idiot who’d jumped off a dorm roof or some other fool stunt.   
  
The permanent headache he’d picked up didn’t make matters any easier, either. His temples and eyes throbbed constantly under the clinic lights, the fluorescent glare sending lances of pain through the bone and straight into his cerebellum, if the way he stumbled around lately was any indication. Even Spock’s snoring, bearable at best, made it impossible to sleep these days without covering his mouth with his pillow to hide his pained groans. He’d snapped at Spock the next morning, regrettably – it was a weekend, so the hobgoblin was up and clattering around before McCoy even had time to wake up properly, dammit – “Can’t you turn off that damn chainsaw? Your snorin’ is givin’ me a headache!”   
  
Spock, to his credit, had only blinked at him and said “Doctor, my nasal passages are slightly misaligned. It is nowhere near serious enough to seek treatment,” but McCoy could swear he caught him looking at him strangely a few times after that. Well, _fuck_ , it wasn’t like he’d never shouted before. His head was just giving him grief; was that a crime? Maybe to Vulcans.   
  
He was also going to need a harsh word or five with whoever messed with the heating system, because it was too cold to get anything done without shivering, even _indoors_. Jim had taken to wrapping an arm around him whenever they spent any time together (which usually led to the threat of a hypospray if the kid didn’t get his goddamn octopus arms off him, but it wasn’t like that helped), but McCoy didn’t really pay it any mind; he figured Jim was a little cold, too, and it had more to do with his gregarious nature than with the temperature changes.   
  
That is, until his head stuffed up, too, and yeah, he _really_ should have been paying attention to his own health and not just that of the morons who got sent to him (and got a free yelled lecture into the bargain, you’re _welcome_ ), but he _definitely_ couldn’t be sick right now. ‘Sides, he’d had the hypospray vaccines himself, so he wasn’t getting sick, anyway.   
  
One day, he had to stop giving a second-year cadet her physical so he could go into the tiny attached bathroom and cough his lungs out, struggling to breathe through his stuffy nose just to get a little damn _air_. He would’ve thrown up with the exertion, except for the fact that a quick hypospray made him stop hacking long enough to finish the physical – but he knew it was really no better than a band-aid over a bad wound. The cadet was looking at him funny when he finished examining her, too – _Christ_ , did everyone have an opinion about his headaches that they couldn’t keep to themselves? Fuck.  
  
He had to admit, though, that sleeping right through his alarm, the snooze alarm, _and_ the second snooze alarm wasn’t exactly a good sign. Neither was waking himself up by coughing so hard that he shivered and gasped for breath until a bit of phlegm dislodged itself from his throat (dammit, he was a doctor, not a snot machine). He cleared his airways with some difficulty and rolled over – “Ow! Fuck!” – to check the time on his PADD: eight in the morning. “Damn,” he croaked. He’d really have to hustle if he wanted to get to class on time.   
  
When he flung the blankets off, though, he doubled in on himself, shivering again. When did it get so _cold_ in here? Okay…so maybe skipping class today wasn’t the worst idea, not with how cold he felt and how he ached all over. Fucking flu bug. Of course, _his_ vaccine apparently had to be the one to fail.   
  
He heard Spock’s door slide open, but was too busy trying to warm up to turn around. That is, until Spock blocked his field of vision by standing in front of him, _again_. “Doctor. You are unwell.” No question about it; if Spock hadn’t realized how bad he felt before, he sure as hell did now. It was kind of hard _not_ to notice; McCoy himself had just been the last one to the damn party, ironically enough.   
  
He nodded. “Yeah.”   
  
“You will not attend your classes until you are well enough to concentrate adequately.”   
  
It felt kind of nice, really, that Spock apparently _cared_ about him enough to be bossy about what he would and wouldn’t do when he was sick, but _well enough to concentrate adequately_ blocked out too damn long a chunk of class time he couldn’t miss. “Can’t miss more’n today. There’s stuff I gotta do.”   
  
“On the contrary, Doctor, it is illogical for you to attend your classes while you are still contagious. Surely you realize this.”   
  
Yeah, he realized it all right. Stupid pointy-eared hobgoblin and his Vulcan logic. “Fine, but I gotta take a piss. No law against that, is there?” He stood up, only to realize _very_ quickly what a bad idea that was; the room swayed, his stomach pitched alarmingly, and he _just_ had time to run to the bathroom and drop to his knees in front of the porcelain god before he threw up into it.   
  
He was breathing hard by the time the spasms ended, sweaty hair sticking to his face and neck; it was all he could do not to pass out then and there, but instead, he settled for flushing, resting his cheek on the toilet seat, sanitation be damned (he’d just lost his cookies in the thing, for chrissake) and clenching his teeth at the muscle cramps that knotted his abdomen. Much as McCoy hated giving the green-blooded elf credit about stuff, Spock was right. _Definitely_ no class for a while.   
  
“Doctor?”   
  
Shit. Speak of the devil and he’ll appear right in your doorway. McCoy turned his head to look at him; yeah, he knew there was something wrong when he couldn’t even muster up the energy to lift his head off a filthy toilet seat crawling with disease and danger. “Don’ come in here, Spock,” he mumbled. “Smells like puke.” Not that he could smell _anything_ right now, but he’d learned a few things from being a doctor _and_ the daddy to a six-year-old.   
  
He probably shouldn’t have been at all surprised when Spock came on in anyway, but the feel of strong hands lifting him to his feet still startled a noise out of him. “W- _what_ the hell’re you doin’?”   
  
“I am helping you to recuperate, Doctor,” Spock said. His hands were at the same time firm and gentler than McCoy ever would have thought they could be as he guided McCoy out of the bathroom to the living room. “Do you wish to sleep, or would you prefer that I escort you to the medical clinic?”   
  
“Sleep sounds good.” He felt _drained_ , actually, by the combination of sickness and lack of sleep that had sneaked up behind him and given him a good, hard sucker punch this morning. _Shit_ , his legs were shaky…well, puking your guts up did tend to do that to you. But when Spock steered him towards his bedroom door – it was always closed, and McCoy had never been inside, not that he’d had any interest – the unexpectedness of it was enough to make him forget all about his legs and still-hurting stomach. “Why…”   
  
Spock cut him off mid-sentence (and wasn’t it _just_ like the green-blooded hobgoblin to be brusque?) as his door slid open. “I have calculated that my bed is approximately sixty-three point two nine percent firmer and more comfortable than the sofa bed, and thus it is logical that you recover there.”   
  
McCoy didn’t answer right away, mostly because he hadn’t reeled his jaw in yet. If the rest of the apartment was bland, Spock’s room was downright _luxurious_ \- hangings on the walls, a dark blue carpet that looked soft enough to fall asleep on, plump pillows and a thick red comforter on a wide double bed. Shit, no wonder Spock didn’t like to get up in the mornings if that meant dragging himself out of _this_ place. “Nice room,” he finally said.   
  
“It is logical to allow oneself the highest of comforts in order to function at optimal levels,” Spock replied. _Right_ , and he was letting McCoy sleep on a lumpy sofa bed with a mess of his snores for company…damn hobgoblin. “You will remain here until your illness has passed.”   
  
“What, here? That ain’t fair to you –“ Spock didn’t even give him a chance to work up into a protest about him being _contagious_ , a real logical argument if there ever was one; instead, he drew McCoy towards the bed and flipped back the covers.   
  
“It is, as you stated, quite ‘fair to me’ that you convalesce here. Your illness is…” Spock paused, looking as uncomfortable as a Vulcan would probably look, before continuing. “…partially of my own doing.”   
  
Oh, yeah. The rain incident. Well, at least the green-blooded computer was taking some _responsibility_ for leaving him out in the goddamn rain. “You’ll get sick,” McCoy said through a yawn. “Gonna germ up your bed.” Germs or no, though, that bed looked _inviting_. Made him want to just plunk down and sleep for about a month, especially now that he’d started shivering again.   
  
“Negative. The virus with which you are stricken is not contagious to me, as it is incompatible with my blood type.”   
  
The green blood actually did him some _good_. How ironic was that? “Fine.” McCoy yawned again, this time so widely that he had to close his eyes. “I’m gon’ lie down, then.” If Spock was seriously offering his _bed_ , no concern about contagion, he’d take advantage of it. He disengaged from Spock’s grip and fell forward onto the mattress, his face landing on the pillow with a muffled thump and his legs hanging half off. _Christ_ , that felt good – the sheets were cool and dry against his face and, weirdly enough, eased his shivering a little.   
  
Spock didn’t say anything about how illogical or undignified he was being. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, and McCoy found himself heading towards a good long sleep, awkward position or no. He snuffled and sleepily rubbed his face against the pillow. “You still there?”   
  
“Indeed.” If McCoy’s eyes had been open, they would have widened when those same strong hands gently turned him so that his legs rested on the bed, too, then pulled the covers up around his neck. Instead, he curled in on himself and drifted off. 

~

  
  
He didn’t really remember when he woke up. There were a few vague images in his head, pseudo-memories, maybe, of coolness on his hot forehead, a hand on his back supporting him as he sipped something cold. _Spock?_ Was Spock really there with him? There had to be something illogical about that.   
  
“Doctor. Are you awake?”   
  
McCoy blinked slowly, his eyes fluttering open with some difficulty. “Spock?” His voice was raspy, and it scratched unpleasantly at his throat. “Wha’sit?”   
  
“I have medication for you.” Spock leaned forward; there was a cup of water in one hand and a pill packet in the other. “Are you able to swallow?”   
  
It was probably just the fever that made Jim Kirk’s voice sing out _That’s what she said!_ in his brain. “Yeah. Hold on.” He cleared his throat and dug his elbows into the mattress to push himself up a little ways - _damn_ , even that hurt – and swallow the pills. “I been out long?”   
  
“Approximately eighteen standard hours, Doctor. Your temperature has remained at thirty-eight point one degrees Celsius for three point five hours.”   
  
That was too much math to process right now. McCoy shook his head and slid back down into the pillows. “And you’re…here?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Wha’bout your class?” And if he’d been out around eighteen hours, it didn’t take a calculator to work out that it was the middle of the night. Why the hell was Spock sticking around to give him medicine?   
  
An expression that might have been amusement flashed in Spock’s eyes. “Neither of the classes I teach convenes on Friday. My mother informed me that a human suffering from influenza requires warmth and fluids, and it was logical that I provide such amenities.”   
  
Did Spock call his mama _every_ time he had a human problem? That was just this side of hilarious, and soreness aside, a smile found its way to McCoy’s lips. “She’s right. But you didn’t have to…I mean…” A harsh cough cut him off, and for a minute or maybe two, the sickness took over long enough to let him collect his thoughts. “Ow, _fuck_.” He sniffled and cleared his throat. “This is disgustin’.”   
  
“Your symptoms do not disgust me. That would be illogical.” Spock turned back to the bedside table and rustled around with something before producing a box of tissues and setting them down on the pillow by McCoy’s head.  
  
Didn’t disgust him - _right_. “Real subtle,” McCoy said in as light of a tone as his raspy voice would allow, rolled his eyes, and blew his nose thickly into a tissue. Nice and soft; at least lotion seemed to be on Spock’s list of logical luxuries. He would never understand Vulcans.   
  
Spock declined to comment on that, instead starting in again on his mother’s remedies. “My mother also said that you are to be given hot tea to restore your hydration balance. Do you wish for me to make tea?”   
  
“No, thanks.” He wiped at his nose and set the tissue to the side, as far away from Spock as possible. “I kinda don’t feel like movin’.”   
  
“Very well. Rest is logical.” Spock shifted a little, like there was something taking up space in his brain that didn’t quite want to come out of his mouth yet. “Doctor, should you find that you need…”   
  
“Dammit, man,” McCoy said – it was rude to interrupt, yeah, but this was ridiculous. “I got a name and it’s Leonard. _Jesus_. You’ve seen me puke in your can, but you can’t call me somethin’ other than my degree? Ain’t that a little weird?”   
  
Spock’s shoulders stiffened up just a tiny bit. “Indeed.”   
  
Great, now he’d made him mad. Spock _probably_ couldn’t turn into the Vulcan Hulk or anything, but still, the guy was letting him use his _bed_. “Never mind. Just call me whatever you want.”   
  
That seemed to work; at any rate, it relaxed Spock enough to make him actually stretch out a little on the empty side of the bed, the low light in the room emphasizing the angles of his face as he did. He had to admit, the kid wasn’t half bad to look at. Skinny, but he had good bones. “I will attempt to utilize your forename…Leonard.”   
  
Huh. It sounded kind of funny coming out of a _Vulcan’s_ mouth. “You oughta get to bed,” McCoy said after a few moments of silence. “It’s gotta be the middle of the night.” The window covers were drawn, so the only light in the room was the soft ambience, and he was getting tired again himself. A cough made him turn his face into his shoulder.   
  
“Leonard.” His name sounded a little more comfortable in Spock’s mouth now. There was a light touch on his free shoulder. “Would you like a cup of water?”   
  
“Nah, I’m fine.” Getting him water meant Spock would leave, which probably meant he’d be back on the uncomfortable sofa bed and McCoy would be alone in the comfortable bed. Speaking of… “Spock?”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
McCoy took a breath in and let it out, softly, so as not to send himself into another coughing fit. “Why don’t you stay in here? You said you can’t catch this, an’ your bed’s gotta be more comfortable than the couch.”   
  
Spock didn’t say anything. And he _kept_ on not saying anything as McCoy felt his face slowly color beet red. Just when it looked like the damn Vulcan was getting a little less skittish, he went and scared him off again. “A’right, forget it,” McCoy said, and cleared his throat again. Spock probably thought he was coming on to him or something, which he _wasn’t_. But would Spock mind if he was?   
  
Damn fever. It put weird-ass images in his mind.   
  
“I am not averse to your proposition.”   
  
Had he heard right? “You mean you’ll stay here?” Dammit, he didn’t have to sound so _enthusiastic_ about it. What was he, seven? Scared of the dark, had to have the hobgoblin in bed with him to ward off the bogeymen?   
  
“I will indeed stay here. Should you need my assistance in any matter, do not hesitate to awaken me.” Spock relaxed a tiny bit more against the headboard. “Lights off.”   
  
The room darkened, and McCoy felt his sleepiness return almost instantly. Spock was a pretty damn good nurse, even if he was really a scientist (and if he was thinking in logic like that, the Vulcan had to be rubbing off on him). “’Night, Spock,” he yawned.   
  
_Sleep well, Leonard,_ he thought he heard a soft voice say, but that could have just been his imagination. Either that or more snoring.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy feels a lot better - that is, until Jim decides to interfere.

  
It took the rest of the weekend before McCoy felt stable enough to get out of bed for anything longer than using the bathroom, and three more days before Spock deemed him well enough to go back to class. And _then_ he went to Hand-to-Hand Combat, only to find that Spock had gotten permission for him to skip it for the next two weeks. That pointy-eared bastard.   
  
But he was grinning as he walked out of the training room, a spring in his step that definitely hadn’t been there when he’d stumbled in. Hell, it was his last class of the day, so he could sit down on a bench and read his latest Xenoanatomy assignment; Chelli’han _definitely_ didn’t give you a break if you’d been sick, the bastard.   
  
“Hey, Bones!”   
  
Oh, lord. There was only one person who called him that, and _he_ was in that class, too. McCoy lowered his PADD, only to find himself staring straight into Jim Kirk’s eyes. “What’re you doin’ out of class, Jim?”   
  
“I had whatever’s going around campus last week,” Jim said cheerfully, and plunked his ass down, dangerously close to McCoy’s bag. “So now I can’t do anything strenuous without hacking my lungs up.”   
  
“Nice image, kid. Get your hands off my stuff.” He lightly smacked away one of Jim’s ever-wandering hands, which had gravitated to his bag and started fiddling with a strap. “You seem like you’re in an awful good mood for someone who _says_ he had the flu.”   
  
“Flu?” Jim blinked, then shook his head. “No, I’ve had the hypo for that. Just some weird malaise.”   
  
Great. So not only did a goddamn _doctor_ come down with the flu, but he had one of the worst cases going around. Even Jim Tiberius Allergy Kirk’s immune system outdid his. Also, who used the word _malaise_ anymore? It was pretty easy to forget Jim was a genius until he pulled a word like that out of his ass. It looked like Anvil-Level Bluntness was in order today. “So your _malaise_ got you outta Hand-to-Hand. What does that have to do with sittin’ here, botherin’ me?”   
  
“Bothering you?” Jim flashed him a grin and rearranged his face into what he probably thought was a mock-offended look, but in reality, just made him look really damn weird. “I just wanna _talk_ , Bones. How’s the living situation going?”   
  
“It’s fine.” No need to mention how Spock had taken care of him over the better part of the past week. Jim would just twist it into something perverted, knowing him. “We’re gettin’ along fine.”   
  
“Yeah?” Christ. That was the Pervert Smile, even though McCoy didn’t _think_ he’d said anything that could possibly be made into an innuendo. “Is it fun? Do you share a bathroom and get naked in front of each other and start splash fights in the shower?”   
  
McCoy’s jaw dropped open. He’d been expecting perverted, but this was ridiculous. “ _What?_ ” How many schoolgirl pornos had this kid been watching?   
  
“ _Ohhh._ ” Jim’s grin spread to become, if it was even possible, even more lascivious. “So is he green _all over?_ You know, under the _thinner_ skin?”   
  
“Shut your fool mouth,” McCoy snapped. Jim _better_ not have blabbed these damn rumors of his all over the campus, or Spock would be out of a job and McCoy would be out of a house. Why the hell was he blushing, anyway? “That’s the worst load of bullshit I ever heard. Spock an’ I share an _apartment_ , and that’s it, and that’s all either of us is interested in. Got that?”   
  
“Sure, sure.” Jim snickered. “Imaginations are fun, aren’t they?”   
  
“Hnn,” McCoy grunted, rolling his eyes. “Speak for yourself.” Not that there hadn’t been a few weird dreams, but then again, who didn’t have a few dreams where their roommate appeared in some strange-ass context? “Good thing you’re feelin’ all right, anyway.” Jim was probably cranky and needy when he was sick, just like a little kid.   
  
“Yep, good thing. So what are you doing over the holiday break?”   
  
“Break?” He blinked. Winter break was still a month or so away, so why was Jim bringing it up now? “Didn’t really think about yet. I’ll probably just work at the clinic and get some studyin’ done and stuff.” If there was one thing that was universal over the holiday season, it was drunk morons wandering in with preventable injuries.   
  
“Cool. Maybe I’ll stick around, too.” Jim laid his head on McCoy’s shoulder.   
  
“Personal space, Jim.” One more incident of inappropriate affection and McCoy would probably scream or something. Or stab Jim with a hypospray. Either one was probably a pretty effective remedy.   
  
“Nah. You’re fun to man-snuggle.” Jim rubbed his head in a little harder, sighing. “What do you use to wash your shirts?”   
  
Christ, now he was going into ‘man-snuggle’ mode. This had to be nipped in the bud if McCoy didn’t want him to cling onto him for an hour. “Get the hell off me.”   
  
“Fine. Be like that.” Jim actually _stuck his tongue out at him_ as he disengaged from man-snuggle mode. Honest-to-god stuck his tongue out, holy _fuck_. How old was he again? Five? “My roommate sucks.”   
  
“What’d he do this time?” McCoy asked. The way Jim talked about Cadet V’anara, he made the man sound like the world’s biggest prude, and an idiot to boot; he’d play along, though, if it kept Jim from getting handsy.   
  
“Well, I’d just gotten lucky” – McCoy snorted, inadvertently interrupting him – “What? This was yesterday, _after_ class.”   
  
“Don’t care when it was. Keep goin’.”   
  
“Anyway, I came into our room and he made a face and said he could _smell_ the sex on me, and I guess he could tell we got freaky because he started yelling about how a _real man_ never allows another to play with his _excretion orifice._ Seriously, that’s a direct quote.” Jim rolled his eyes.  
  
Giving too much information was Jim’s modus operandi, but that didn’t mean McCoy was used to it, or _liked_ it, for that matter. “You can stop there,” he said with a shudder. “I don’t wanna hear about your _excretion orifice_ any more’n your roommate wants to smell whatever you’ve been doin’.”   
  
“Bones! I’m _miffed!_ ” And there he went with the vocabulary again. Libido of an Orion, brain of a fifty-year-old literary critic. McCoy just didn’t understand what made Jim Kirk tick, sometimes. “If you could’ve seen this guy, you would’ve let him peg you, too.”   
  
“ _Guy?_ ” McCoy wasn’t that experienced with men (college. And _college_ ), but he knew enough to figure that a man usually didn’t want to _peg_ an ass like Jim’s (and goddammit, now he was thinking about it, too) when he had a perfectly good penis at the ready. “The _fuck_ , Jim? Too much information!”   
  
“It’s never too much information when it’s me, Bones,” Jim informed him with a cheerful smile. “He had a groin injury from Hand-to-Hand. You might know him…purple skin, red and yellow eyes?”   
  
“The _Elahavin?_ ” Christ. Jim had probably scarred the poor bastard for life. “Goddammit, Jim.”   
  
“I think he was _definitely_ enjoying himself.” And now Jim was just going on, without regard to propriety (or anyone who might be fucking _listening_ ). “See, he couldn’t use his dick on me, but it was hot. It was all purple, and sort of orange at the head. See, he has yellow blood.”   
  
Yellow blood? That wasn’t a half bad fact to know. But still… “Jim. Shut the hell up.” He didn’t exactly need to know whose dick Jim had been looking at last night. “’Less you gotta bring him in with a sex injury, I don’t wanna know jackshit about his dick.” Oh, and now Jim was getting that look again. “No, Jim, you’re not allowed to give him a sex injury.”   
  
“Fuck, Bones!” Jim pouted out his full lower lip. “Well, can I give _you_ a sex injury? You probably make some pretty good noises when someone is giving you a blowjob.”   
  
If a _normal_ person had said something as batshit crazy as that, McCoy probably would have smacked the daylights out of them. But this was Jim, and Jim had been one step away from making this kind of damn fool proposition for most of the semester. “Forget it,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not interested.”   
  
“Well, someday you’ll be interested, and when that day comes, I’ll be right here.” Jim winked again, but (thank _god_ ) didn’t lean on McCoy again or try to smell his shirt or anything else like that. “How’d you do on the last Astrochem exam?”   
  
Shit, he didn’t even like to _think_ about that. It had been one of the ones he’d had to take when he was sick as a dog. “Eighty. You?” He’d done fine in chem when he was a college freshman, but that was years back, and the Astrochemistry professor was one of those who talked fast and flipped the slides faster.   
  
“Um. Ninety-three.” At least Jim had the sense to blush a little and look down. “It was a hard one.” At once, his face brightened. “Oh! That’s what she said!”   
  
McCoy sighed and rubbed his forehead with one palm. For a twenty-two-year-old, Jim was just plain immature. “Can’t say I didn’t see that comin’.”   
  
“That’s also what she said.”   
  
“Shut up, Jim.”   
  
“Yes, _sir_.” Jim grinned and pounded McCoy a couple times on the back. “So. We should hang around here and get really drunk over New Year’s, and then you can give me the hangover hypos and I’ll hack the Academy database to read “Happy New Year! Psych!” in different languages.” He grinned, as if he was pleased with himself for having worked that out two months ahead of time. “Okay, so do you wanna go hang out in the student union? Coffee’s on me.”   
  
That sounded pretty good. There was a Starbucks stall in the student center (or “Starfleetbucks,” as the more sardonic cadets referred to it), and it had been almost a week since McCoy had had good coffee – Spock didn’t make the stuff. Thought it was _illogical_ , although how a beverage could be illogical, McCoy had no idea. “Fine. No promises on the New Year’s hypo, though.”   
  
“Whatever.” Jim shrugged and stood up; McCoy followed, and they made their way out of the gym building. It was actually _nice_ for a change…well, as nice as November in San Francisco could be. The fog wasn’t so soupy today. “How’re your other classes?”   
  
“Pretty good. Clinical Ethics is interesting.” Thank god it was a seminar class, or else the days McCoy had missed would’ve bitten him in the ass. Commander Snyder didn’t really post a lot of updates. “How’ve yours been?”   
  
Jim smiled, an honest smile instead of a smirk. Good, so he _did_ enjoy himself. The sight he’d been on the shuttle hadn’t really indicated he was ‘Fleet material, but McCoy had been wrong before and it looked like he was wrong again (dammit). “They’re good. Tactical Negotiations is the best – it’s pretty much a disguise for Manipulation 101.”   
  
“Yeah? Good.” He’d heard this at least a dozen times before, but at least Jim liked the class. Scuttlebutt was that he was acing it, too. Hearing about him pissing off some professor or other with a stunt always made McCoy feel alternately proud and mortified to call himself Jim’s friend, but he figured they were stuck together by now. Getting poked in the back of the neck tended to do that to you.   
  
“Oh, and I’m taking your _boy toy’s_ class next semester,” Jim added, and winked. “Interspecies Ethics.”   
  
McCoy sighed. “Did you sign up for that just ‘cause he teaches it?”   
  
“Maaaaaybe.” Jim winked again as they – thank the good Lord – walked through the doors to the student union. At least Jim was more hyper than annoying when he was caffeinated. “Hey, Gaila. I’ll have an espresso frappuccino, extra coffee, extra chocolate sauce,” he said to the Orion girl behind the Starbucks counter, then turned to McCoy. “Bones? How about you?”   
  
Christ, Jim and his frappuccinos. “Tall coffee, nothin’ in it,” he said. If Jim was paying for it, he could at least do the kid the favor of not ordering something that was five credits and composed mainly of sugar. Even if Jim didn’t do _him_ that same favor when McCoy was buying. “Thanks.” He smiled at the cashier, and she smiled back; maybe it was that damn green skin, but she was pretty cute. ‘Gaila’, Jim had called her. “I don’t see you here much.”   
  
“I could say the same to you,” she replied with a smile. “I assume that you’re Leonard. The doctor, yes?” Jim handed her his credit chip, and she nodded and ran it through a scanner, then handed it back to him.   
  
“Uh-huh,” McCoy answered. Something dinged, and Gaila ducked over to another section of counter for a minute or so, then handed his coffee to him. “Thanks, darlin’.”   
  
She blinked at him. “What does that mean?”   
  
“What’s what mean? _Darlin’_?” Right, right…he had to remember that she was from another planet. “Just a term of affection. Right now, it means I ain’t annoyed.”   
  
“He’s usually annoyed,” Jim cut in.   
  
“Shut up, Jim.”   
  
“Okay.” Gaila pushed Jim’s frappuccino over the counter, and he took it with a squeak that he would probably deny later. “Sweet! Caffeine!” He popped off the top and took a huge gulp, which left foam all over his upper lip, then sat down at a nearby steel table. “Bones. Seriously, you need to try this stuff. It’s amazing.”   
  
“No, thanks.” McCoy raised an eyebrow at him. “And wipe your damn mouth. You look like a five-year-old.” Sometimes, he couldn’t tell if Jim was oblivious to normal people’s social niceties or just plain wanted to annoy him. “So,” he said, turning back to Gaila, “what’s a nice cadet like you doin’ serving frappuccinos to _him?_ ” He jerked a thumb in Jim’s direction; Jim had the cup up to his lips again and was slurping loudly.   
  
“Hey,” Jim protested from the depths of his foam.   
  
“Pipe down, Jim,” Gaila said with a laugh. “Leonard, to answer your question, I just work here for the credits. Serving people like our mutual friend is a side benefit.” She winked. “So, if I can turn the question back to you, what’s a nice cadet like you doing, being his friend?”   
  
“I’m not the butt monkey here, you assholes,” Jim griped.   
  
“Shut up, Jim!” McCoy barked, and chuckled when it registered in his brain that Gaila had said it at the same time as he had. “Well, Jim, looks like you done got yourself a _smart_ one, here. Cheers.” He held up his cup, and Gaila raised a hand to playfully slap it.   
  
“You’re probably smart, too, if he holds you so high in his regards,” she said, doing something to the cash register and walking out from behind the counter. He took a second to admire how the green apron clung to her form before she sat down at Jim’s table and indicated that McCoy do the same. Once seated, he realized with some amusement that she had a few dark green freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. “What’s your medical specialty?”   
  
“Surgery,” he said, and took a sip of the coffee. Delicious. Whatever Starfleetbucks was doing to its beans these days, well, he hoped they’d keep on doing it. “How ‘bout you?”   
  
“I’m in computer science,” Gaila answered, “which means that I can help Jim with his assignments sometimes.” She grinned, showing teeth that looked glare-bright against her green skin. “I could help you with yours, if you want. Isn’t computer science a general education requirement?”   
  
“Yeah, sure is.” He could use a little help when he took it next semester; Starfleet Medical and Starfleet proper weren’t _technically_ under the same academic jurisdiction, or even the same chain of command, but they shared some core requirements. And programming, unfortunately, was a requirement that had _never_ been one of his strong points. “You wanna come ‘round to my place?”   
  
“Wait, _your_ place?” Gaila blinked, frowning. “Don’t you and Jim live in the same dorm?”   
  
Jim’s mouth dropped open. “No way. I seriously haven’t told you?” He snorted and smacked himself in the forehead. “Jesus, I’m stupid! No, Bones here –“ he reached over and poked McCoy’s arm –“ _he_ lives with Lieutenant Commander _Spock!_ ”   
  
“What? _No_.” She shook her head. “Commander Spock doesn’t even _talk_ to anyone, most of the time.” A green hand curled into a fist and punched Jim playfully in the shoulder. “Why are you joking?”   
  
“Ow!” Jim rubbed his shoulder and gave her an injured look, the one that looked like a puppy with constipation. “I’m not joking! He seriously does live with him. Right, Bones?” He turned his baby blues on McCoy, fluttering his eyelashes a few times. “Tell her.”   
  
_Honestly._ “Yeah, we’re housemates,” McCoy said. “Sat next to him on the shuttle up here, and things took off from there.” He shrugged. “It ain’t nothin’.”   
  
“Leonard!” Gaila reached across the table and squeezed his hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. “That is a _big_ deal. Commander Spock is _hot!_ ” Jim nodded.   
  
“Well…” Dammit, why were his cheeks heating up? Spock was a goddamn…a goddamn hobgoblin! “Y’all can think whatever you want. But he’s just my housemate, and he ain’t a half bad guy, so shut up with the rumors, all right? I don’t want him losin’ a job.”   
  
“All right,” Gaila said with a shrug. “But if you change your mind, tell me. I like to hear people’s relationship stories.”   
  
“Or sex stories,” Jim put in. “Neither of us are picky.”   
  
“Do I have to give you a hypo?” McCoy asked, and made as if to reach in his pocket for something. It was empty, of course – it wasn’t like they let you take the things out of the clinic, but Jim didn’t have to know that.   
  
“Jeez!” Jim yelped. “Fine! I’ll shut up, okay?” He brought his drink up to his face again and took a long, loud sip. “I don’t get no respect,” he muttered mutinously into the whipped cream.   
  
Damn straight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embarrassing stuff goes down during a normal morning conversation.

The rest of the semester passed by pretty quickly, much to McCoy’s relief; studying for exams was hell, and he was looking forward to a few (relatively) relaxing weeks treating people at the clinic without having to worry about Clinical Ethics in the morning. Exams at Starfleet? Yeah, nothing at all like the ones he’d had to deal with at Ole Miss. At least there, he hadn’t had to prepare for the possibility of a question dealing with the proper treatment in a goddamn _first contact_ situation. Fucking diplomacy.   
  
It was a few days into winter break by the time the exam results came back, and all told, they weren’t half bad. B in Astrochem, A’s in Clinical Ethics, Humanoid Anatomy, and Role of Medicine in Planetary Exploration (which everyone always abbreviated to ‘Medrole’ when they talked about it, because the title was long and stupid). Hand-to-Hand didn’t grade, and he was damn glad of that.   
  
Jim, the brat, got straight A’s, which McCoy knew because Jim banged on his door at 5 PM the day the results came back to tell him so. Thank _god_ Spock was in a meeting, or he wouldn’t have been able to avoid the Eyebrow of Doom for weeks, probably. At any rate, the break passed without any serious incidents, unless you counted Jim’s little stunt with the New Year’s computer hacking and the two Tellarite cadets who got piss-drunk on Cardassian sunrises and had to have two of their four collective stomachs pumped.   
  
Morons.   
  
Introduction to Computer Programming was the first class of the day, now, except it was at nine-thirty. McCoy had a little more time to sleep in before he had to drag his lazy self out of bed (sofa, really, but he wasn’t one to talk semantics) and shove some food down his throat. And, when he woke up at seven-thirty, Spock got up, too.  
  
He might not have been a morning person, but _shit_ , the hobgoblin cleaned up real nice when he’d just gotten up. There was a brightness to his brown eyes that McCoy didn’t usually see in the evening, and his skin damn well _shone_ (he would ask what Spock used on his face, but that was something Jim would do, and the last thing he wanted was to emulate Jim Kirk). Their conversations weren’t bad, either; Spock was pretty damn good at computer programming, which didn’t really come as a surprise.   
  
Almost made him _worried_ at the prospect of losing that companionship. Spock may have been a hobgoblin, but dammit, he was a good roommate. Near perfect, actually; no late-night banging around drunk, no naked women in the living room, no suspicious fluids. The snoring was really the only thing that irritated McCoy (well, besides the lack of emotions and all that), but he could deal with it – enough that, one morning in February over a bowl of shredded whatever, he blurted out, “You thought about the housin’ arrangements for next year?”   
  
Spock blinked at him, like he usually did when McCoy came up with a non-sequitur (made him feel like an idiot, too). “Yes, I have considered them,” he answered. “I will remain in this apartment until such time as I am assigned to a starship.”   
  
“Oh. Lucky you.” McCoy felt his face reddening. Why was it that Spock always had to look at him like he was the dumbest human to ever dubiously grace the planet with his presence? Still, he had to ask. Jim was making noises about rooming together next year, and no _way_ was he letting that happen. Kid was annoying enough as his best friend (and only friend, really, unless you counted Gaila). “You thought about…well, maybe it’d be okay if I stuck around here, too?”   
  
Spock tilted his head slightly, but this time his expression was curious rather than condescending. “You wish to remain here?”   
  
“Well…I guess, yeah.” He ducked his head and swallowed a bite of cereal. “Would you mind that? I mean, I could maybe find a spot in the dorms now, but I kinda like bein’ here.” He rubbed at the back of his neck with one palm. “If that’s okay with you.”   
  
“You may stay, Leonard.” The lack of condescension or animosity or anything else Vulcan-y in Spock’s voice made McCoy look up, surprised. Spock’s eyes were bright and, it seemed, sincere. “You are a…more than adequate housemate.” Well, _there_ it was, now…the tone that made it seem like any compliment physically caused him pain. Good to be back on familiar ground.   
  
“Yeah, sure,” McCoy said, smirking and taking another bite of shredded whatever. Why did Spock refuse to buy any fucking milk? The stuff tasted like straw, dry. An uncomfortable question would probably be enough revenge for that. “So, you managed to find a girlfriend or something lately? Or a boyfriend?” There was no indication that Spock was straight as a ruler, after all; he found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat at the thought. Why was that, anyway?   
  
Spock hesitated. “I am bonded.”   
  
Wait, _what?_ “What’s bonded mean?” And why was Spock actually giving him a straight answer, instead of blowing him off with some kind of Vulcan fake answer? Not that it wasn’t a pleasant surprise, but still…weird. “Does it mean you’re _married?_ ”   
  
“I am not married.” Spock took a bite of his own cereal. “The Vulcan bonded state is more binding than a human engagement and less formal than a human marriage.”   
  
“Binding? You mean, you got no choice about it?” McCoy blinked and arched an eyebrow. Sounded a little counterintuitive for a planet full of people that prided themselves on being more-logical-than-thou. “That don’t sound like any fun at all.”   
  
“A bonding is not meant to be ‘fun’, Leonard. It is meant to facilitate communication and connection between two Vulcans of a similar age,” Spock said. More chewing. McCoy noticed for the first time that the way Spock’s cheek bulged out when it was full was kind of cute; should have been disgusting, but for some reason, it wasn’t. Had to be another Vulcan thing.   
  
“Yeah, well.” He took a gulp of water. “I know all about those kinds of relationships, and they usually fail like you wouldn’t believe. I ever tell you ‘bout my divorce?”   
  
“You told me that your wife took the majority of your assets.”   
  
Oh yeah. That must’ve been when he was out of his mind on the shuttle…damn aviophobia. “Well. Yeah, that happened. Mostly ‘cause of the custody battles over our daughter.”   
  
“I did not realize that you had produced offspring, Leonard.” The Vulcan Brow rose. “What is her name?”   
  
Seriously, he hadn’t told Spock about Jo? Shit, even _Jim_ knew, and it wasn’t like McCoy was living with him…thank god. “Her name’s Joanna, but we mostly call her Jo. She’s gonna be seven in a few months.” Not like Jocelyn would give him any comm time with her for her goddamn _birthday_ , the bitch. Did she _want_ their daughter to grow up not knowing her daddy’s face, or voice?   
  
“Is her personality much like yours?”   
  
Right, like asking questions about Jo was going to get Spock out of talking about himself. “Just a little. She’s thinkin’ about going into medicine, like me…but I can talk about her anytime.” He leaned forward a little across the table. “So why didn’t you tell me you’re _engaged?_ She nice at all?”   
  
Spock made a slight motion with his shoulder that probably would’ve been a shrug, were he human. “She has proven to be an adequate companion thus far,” he said, which didn’t really answer the question at all; bastard probably knew it, too. “’Nice’ is a subjective term and its usage is thus illogical.”   
  
“Well, I…I mean…” McCoy opened and closed his mouth a few times. How was the best way to put this? “You can’t just marry someone you don’t think is at least _nice_. What if you end up hating her or something? What’s logical about stayin’ in a relationship that doesn’t bring pleasure to anyone in it?”   
  
Spock paused. “The system of bonding is more complex than emotional beings perceive it to be,” he said. “Logic is a key factor therein.”   
  
Yeah, right. McCoy could see right through _that_ excuse; sounded like they just didn’t want something as stupid as _love_ fucking up their system. Maybe they had a point, if there were a lot of Jocelyns on Vulcan – could explain why Spock’s daddy went and married a human, anyway.   
  
“Key factor, right,” he muttered, deciding not to press the point. If Spock was telling him personal information, why look a gift horse in the mouth by whaling on him about emotion? “So when’s the wedding?”   
  
“I do not know.” Was it just his imagination, or was Spock actually _blushing?_ Fuck, that was weird. “The time has yet to be determined.” His shoulders tightened slightly, and so did his face; there was clearly something he didn’t want to talk about, something tied up in what determined when he’d marry this woman.   
  
McCoy knew enough by now not to ask. Spock would just withdraw even more, and they’d have to finish the rest of their breakfast in awkward silence. “What’s her name?” he asked instead.   
  
_Good move,_ he thought as Spock’s shoulders relaxed. “Her name is T’Pring,” he answered.   
  
“T’Pring,” McCoy repeated, and took another bite of cereal. The name tasted even weirder in his mouth than the shredded whatever did. “She a scientist, like you?”   
  
“No.” Spock took a sip of water. “She is…” He paused, his mouth tightening for a moment as if in deep thought. “She is in training. The Vulcan term for her profession is _potausu t’kitau-tanaf_.”   
  
“What’d you just say?” How had he never heard Spock speak Vulcan before? The words were… _beautiful_. Not like that name, T’Pringles or whatever it was he called her (and _goddammit_ , he’d be thinking about deliciously unhealthy chips whenever he heard her name now). When the words came out of Spock’s mouth, they flowed. “What does that mean?”   
  
“The literal meaning is ‘keeper of literature,’” Spock said. His mouth twisted again, like it was some big crime to say something even vaguely poetic. “The closest Standard term would be ‘record-keeper.’ When her training is complete, T’Pring will keep records of ancient texts and dialects.”   
  
“Really? Sounds interesting.” It kind of did, actually. Like a mix of historian and journalist, except bitchier – and why in the name of _fuck_ was he thinking of this woman as a bitch when he didn’t hardly know a thing about her? He had to be cracking up.   
  
“Indeed.” Ah, there was the all-purpose word. “Her occupation is…fascinating.” And there was the other all-purpose word, right on cue. Probably meant that Spock wasn’t involved enough in T’Pring’s life to really know anything about what she did, and he was trying to cover his ass about it. Hilarious.   
  
“Yeah?” Something occurred to him, and he felt one side of his mouth curve into half a smile. “How do you say ‘fascinating’ in Vulcan?”   
  
Spock blinked. “Why do you wish to know?”   
  
McCoy shrugged. “Dunno. Just want to hear it.”   
  
There was a pause, like Spock was deciding whether to answer his question or just downright mock him for being illogical. Eventually, the answer won out. “ _Sem-rik._ ”   
  
His heart started pounding. “How do you say…’starship’?”   
  
“ _Yel-hali._ ”   
  
Oh god. “’Doctor’?”   
  
“ _Hakausu_.”   
  
Fuck. _Fuck_. Just the thought of Spock calling him _Hakausu_ McCoy…it was enough to make the word ‘doctor’ sound downright plebeian. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he was getting hard. “Um…’half-Vulcan’?”   
  
“ _Ulef-Vuhlkansu_ ,” Spock said, and by this time, the tone of his voice was pretty obviously irritated at how ‘illogical’ McCoy was. The _ulef-Vuhlkansu_ was a little pissed at _hakausu_ him, and if he didn’t jack off soon, he was going to fucking explode right there.   
  
“Gotta go,” he said, standing up and quickly turning so that his back was to Spock. “Class. See you later.”   
  
“Your class does not begin until –“ Spock began, but by the time he finished his sentence (if he did at all), McCoy had grabbed his bag and was out the door, running towards the computer sciences and engineering building as fast as he could without rubbing his cock raw.   
  
The bathroom was, thankfully, empty. Seconds after he pushed through the door, he’d shut himself into a stall and pulled his pants and underwear down, closing a fist around his erection. His palm was hot with sweat, and a fact flashed through his mind’s eye, something he’d learned in med school about Vulcan body heat. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, his voice loud against the metal stall walls. His back hit the cold metal and he slid down to the floor, hand still clutched around his cock.   
  
The images that ran behind his closed eyes were surprisingly mundane: Spock, running a hand across his forehead, helping him sip water, lifting a bite of cereal to his lips and mouthing fucking _Vulcan_ words. Spock, writing on his PADD, sitting down gracefully in a folding chair, stretching out all long and lean on the red covers of his bed.   
  
Fuck, _Spock_.   
  
McCoy gasped and arched his back, coming so hard across his hand that the pictures behind his eyes blurred into a mass of black and green-tinged white.   
  
He didn’t open his eyes for what felt like years, but in reality was probably several minutes. When he did, his lids snapped open in surprise and a good dose of goddamn horror.   
  
Spock. The _hobgoblin_. He’d come while fantasizing about a _Vulcan_.   
  
He was fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyota Uhura comes over to study. 
> 
> (This is the last chapter I wrote.)

**From:** lhmccoy@sf-acad.fed   
**To:** stspock@sf-acad.fed   
**Subject:** ??  
  
 _Spock –  
  
Do you mind if I bring someone over to study?   
  
-L._   
  
**From:** stspock@sf-acad.fed   
**To:** lhmccoy@sf-acad.fed  
 **Subject:** Re:??  
  
 _I do not mind._   
  
“He said it’s fine.” McCoy slid the PADD back into his bag and turned to his companion. “So, the offer still stands. You wanna study at my place?”   
  
“Absolutely.” Cadet Uhura shouldered her bag and smiled at him, the kind of smile that made her already gorgeous face look absolutely stunning. “It’ll be sort of like the blind leading the blind, right?”   
  
“Hey! What’re you implyin’, that I’m a horrible programmer?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not so good yourself.” Which would be why she was studying with him in the first place; she kind of had an aversion to Jim, and to anyone who associated themselves with him. McCoy had to admit he couldn’t really be angry at her for that, because Jim was _annoying_ if you didn’t get to know him, and still was even if you did.   
  
Instead of getting pissed off, Uhura just laughed. “You’re right,” she said, adjusting her bag higher on her shoulder. “All right, where do you live? Freshman housing?”   
  
“What?” He blinked at her. “Darlin’, do I look like a teenager to you? Nah, I’m in an apartment.” Not for the first time, he was glad that Spock had made the damn offer. He’d seen Jim stagger into Hand-to-Hand with red eyes and messed-up hair, probably the result of booze, sex, or both the night before. Living in that chaos would have been all kinds of hell.   
  
“’Darlin’?’” Uhura said, chuckling again. “I bet you say that to all the girls, Doctor.”   
  
She was calling him by the title Spock used... _dammit_. McCoy tightened the set of his legs a little to avoid embarrassing himself. “Sure do,” he replied. “I’m Southern.” He raised an eyebrow at her and shot her what he _hoped_ was a charming smile/wink combination (Gaila said it made him look like he was about to explode, but what did she know about manners?). “Come on. You wanna study or not?”   
  
“ _Yes_ , I want to study. Let’s go already.” The tone of her voice was gently teasing, and he made a mental note to study with _her_ more often. Jim might have been a genius, but the way he riled McCoy up on purpose made him seem too dumb to live sometimes.   
  
“All right.”   
  
They had left the computer sciences building and started walking through the quad, the fresh spring air cool and pleasant, when McCoy remembered an important little fact. “Hey. I didn’t tell you who my roommate is, did I?” He didn’t _think_ Uhura was the type to freak out like a crazy band fangirl, but you never knew.   
  
“No.” She tilted her head at him. “Should you have told me?” Her eyes went wide. “Oh god. It’s not Jim Kirk, is it? I know you two are friends…”   
  
“No, it’s not Jim,” he answered. “I wouldn’t invite you if it was. It’s Commander Spock.”   
  
“ _What?_ ” Uhura abruptly stopped walking, grabbing onto his arm so hard that it hurt (damn kid had a _grip_ on her). “You’re joking.”   
  
“’Fraid not.” McCoy shook his head. “Kinda a long story, but we met on the shuttle up to the Academy. You might’ve heard Jim yammerin’. Anyway, I couldn’t find no place to stay, so Spock offered to let me stay on his sofa bed.” He shrugged. “He’s neat and doesn’t mess with my stuff much, so I figure I’ll stay next year.”   
  
It was Uhura’s turn to shake her head, even as she released his arm and started walking again. He rubbed it, wincing; that would probably bruise by tomorrow. “It’s just pretty hard to believe,” she said.   
  
“Hnh. You think I don’t know that?” It was the reason he didn’t go _telling_ people he lived with the man in the first place. There would be way too many stupid questions and too much fucking speculation if he did; just look at what Jim had said when he’d first heard. McCoy shuddered at the thought. “Just don’t tell people, all right?”   
  
“Sure.” Uhura nodded. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”   
  
“Thanks.” He smiled at her as they neared his and Spock’s building, then walked up the stairs to press in the access code. “Sorry it’s not very nice or nothin’,” he commented as they walked in, the door closing behind them. “Just us two guys.”   
  
“Leonard. Don’t worry about it.” Uhura took his hand and squeezed it between hers, smiling gently at him. “You don’t need to impress me. I just want a good study partner, not a boyfriend.”   
  
“Well, that’s a damn relief.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and his cheeks heated up. “Sorry. Just meant I wasn’t gonna hit on you. Let’s get studyin’.” He pulled out two chairs at the dining table, one for each of them, and sat down in the one facing away from the door.   
  
Uhura took off her bag and pulled out her PADD, then sat down adjacent to him at the table. “Okay,” she said as her fingers tapped something on the screen. “Where were we? Chapter eleven, right?”  
  
“Yeah. Programming in emergency scenarios,” McCoy replied, and took out his own PADD, pulling up the chapter. “Short circuit on the bridge. What’s the protocol?”   
  
“Hold on.” Uhura rubbed her forehead with two fingers as her eyes squeezed closed in concentration. “Dammit, I can’t remember.”   
  
“Neither can I.” He ran his finger along the PADD’s surface until he’d flipped to the solution a few pages on. “Got it. Look at this.”   
  
She bent her head in his direction to look at the answer. “That doesn’t make any sense.”   
  
“Hey, I don’t get none of it, either.” He shrugged and let a derisive snort out. “They should really call this class ‘Emergency Programming for Morons’ if they won’t teach us what we need to know. More honest, anyway.”   
  
“Absolutely. I’m a linguist, not an engineer.” Uhura rolled her eyes and stabbed the PADD with one long finger, leaving a momentary rainbow swirl on the screen. “Professor Gar never goes into this stuff in class, just the theoretical shit.”   
  
“Not like his TAs are any better.” McCoy flipped to the next problem, and they studied it in silence for a few minutes before he spoke up again. “They should really give a class on how to take this class.”   
  
“Yes!” Uhura looked at him and smirked. “Therapy topic: Programming Class Ruined My GPA.”   
  
“Right. Just like that.” She had a damn good sense of humor when it wasn’t being tested by Jim or someone equally annoying. He’d have to remember that. “Therapy addendum: Programming Class Fucked Up My Otherwise Functional Life. Discuss.”   
  
She let out a laugh at that one, and touched his shoulder. “I think you’ve figured Starfleet out, Leonard. They’re just out to traumatize us so they can profit off our whining later.”   
  
_That_ startled a genuine laugh out of him. “Sure,” he said, rubbing his ribcage where he’d hit the table again (and why did he always seem to hurt himself when he got the giggles?). “Wanna beat the system, darlin’? Give me that topic and I’ll give you therapy for free.”   
  
“You know, I just might take you up on that.” She turned back to her own PADD and flipped a few pages forward, her face warm with a hint of a smile. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”   
  
McCoy glanced up at her. “Sure.”   
  
“Why did you join Starfleet?” He might have been offended, but she looked him full in the face then, and her eyes were wide and curious, not malicious. “I mean, I’m sure you’ll make a great surgeon or medical officer or something, but you don’t seem like the kind of guy who lusts after space adventures. Know what I mean?”   
  
Well, it was pretty unlikely that Uhura was going to go blabbing about his shitty decision-making skills and that. “Bad divorce,” he said by way of explanation. “There were a lot of custody debates, and the court fees pretty much sucked away all my money.”   
  
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He didn’t look at her, but he could feel the pity in her voice. “I wouldn’t have asked…”   
  
“It’s fine.” He held up a hand to stop any further apologies – poor kid didn’t need to go feeling self-conscious about not knowing she’d opened a can of worms. “My ex and I have a daughter,” he added, answering the unspoken question in the air between them. “She’ll be seven soon.”   
  
“What’s her name?” Uhura asked.   
  
“Joanna.” He smiled at that; thinking about his Jo always brightened up whatever mood he was in, because she was just that adorable.   
  
“That’s pretty.” She smiled at him and stretched one shoulder out over her head. “Sorry, I’ve been running around all day. Does she look a lot like you?”   
  
“Just a little. My coloring, I guess, but her face is more like her mother’s.” Not that that was really unexpected, because Jocelyn’s hair was a much lighter brown. “Hold on,” he added as his neglected PADD buzzed. “Gettin’ a call. You don’t mind, do you?”   
  
“Not at all.” Uhura waved a hand in his direction. “I’ll study by myself until you’re finished.”   
  
“Thanks,” he said, too distracted by the flashing address on the PADD’s screen to pay much attention to what she was saying. Why the hell was the Atlanta charter school calling him - _fuck_. Had to be there was something wrong with Joanna; Jocelyn wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise. “Goddammit!”   
  
“What?” Uhura asked, but he shook his head, pressing the screen to accept an audiovisual call.   
  
The image box popped up, flickered a few times, and then filled with a _very_ familiar face. “Hey, Daddy!” Joanna said, the grin on her face a mile wide.   
  
To say that McCoy was flabbergasted was a fucking _understatement_. He could practically feel his jaw hit the table. “Daddy?” Joanna repeated; her smile faded a little. “Are you okay?”   
  
“Oh my _god_ ,” Uhura muttered. “Is that her?”   
  
“Yeah,” McCoy whispered back, then turned his attention back to the screen. “Darlin’, what’s wrong? Why are you callin’ me?” She didn’t _look_ hurt or sick, but if something had happened to her and he hadn’t been notified, Jocelyn was going to get a goddamn _earful_.   
  
“Nothing’s wrong.” Joanna crossed her arms and stared at him, her expression so much like what he saw in the mirror that he nearly burst out laughing. “’Cept Mom said I couldn’t call you for my birthday next month. So I went to school and they let me call you on the office comm.”   
  
Come to think of it, from what he could see of her surroundings, it did look like she was in some kind of administrative office – and why was he thinking about the background when she’d just gone against Jocelyn’s orders? “Sweetheart, you can’t do that,” he said. “If your mama tells you no…”   
  
“Dad!” Joanna cut him off, rolling her eyes exasperatedly. “She said no ‘cause she was being _mean_ , and she doesn’t think you’re a good guy, but I know you _are_.”   
  
Oh. Fucking. _God._ McCoy couldn’t help burying his face in his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in custody drama and he-said-she-said shit with Jocelyn, not _after_ the divorce had nearly sucked the life out of him. “Jo,” he ventured after a few seconds of silence, “I’m happy to hear from you, but you _can’t_ call me without permission. I could get in huge trouble for it.” Yeah, it was probably horrible of him to turn the consequences all back on himself, but she probably wouldn’t understand otherwise.   
  
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Her face fell as suddenly as it had appeared in the first place. “Are you gonna get yelled at?”   
  
Immediately, a stab of guilt pierced him somewhere between the heart and the gut. “No, honey,” he reassured her. “Hold on. I’m gonna move us up, okay?” He waited for her nod, then picked up the PADD and propped it up on the table to get a better view. “Can you see me a little better?”   
  
“Uh-huh.” Joanna nodded, her smile returning. “Hey, Dad?”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I think I have that thing you have. You know, where you puke and stuff?”   
  
What on earth…? “Oh. You mean the aviophobia?” _Shit_ \- he’d thought it was hereditary from the start. Now she’d have to deal with the goddamn fears and inhibitions, too. “You afraid of flyin’, sweetheart? There are people who can help you fix that.”   
  
“Uh-uh.” The confused expression was back on her face; her dark hair got in her face as she shook her head vigorously. “I’m not scared. I just threw up.”  
  
“You… _when_ was this?” Okay, so it _definitely_ wasn’t aviophobia. McCoy couldn’t help a huge sigh of relief at that; it had been debilitating enough in his life without causing problems for his daughter.   
  
“Last week.” She nodded. “I didn’t feel good and I threw up at school.”   
  
Christ, what was Jocelyn _doing?_ Couldn’t she recognize a stupid stomach virus? “That’s not aviophobia,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “That’s just a stomach bug. Mama came and got you, didn’t she? Took care of you?”   
  
“Yeah. I had soup.” Joanna licked her lips and giggled, obviously remembering something that her mother had done to amuse her. The knot in McCoy’s stomach loosened a little, seeing her expression. Jocelyn may not have been a doctor, but it looked like she could take care of their daughter all right, after all. “Mom read me funny stories.”   
  
“Okay. That sounds like fun.” Someone was moving around behind Joanna; he could see a tall form pass by her. Either she was sitting on the floor or they’d gotten one of those kiddie chairs for her. “Look, darlin’, I gotta study for my computer class. You better get home and tell your mama where you’ve been.”   
  
“I’ll get in trouble.” She pouted, puffing her lower lip out in that adorable way.   
  
“Darlin’, _you_ commed _me._ ” He could only hope that Jim never got to talk to her about dodging consequences; her sweet little face seemed like it could do that all on its own. With a dose of Jim Kirk, that danger would be doubled, and she’d probably get away with murder or something. “I’ll talk to your mama and see if I can’t comm you on my own time, okay?”   
  
“ _Fine._ ” She rolled her eyes again, but then blew a kiss at him that just about melted his entire torso. “Love you, Daddy.”   
  
“I love you too, sweetheart. Tell your mother I said hi.” Even if she got on his case for accepting a forbidden call, the least he could do was be civil.  
  
“I will. Love you again.” She smiled, and the screen went blank.   
  
Uhura’s voice broke into his thoughts after a few seconds. “I’m assuming that was your daughter,” she said.   
  
“Yep.” He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “I swear, she doesn’t usually pull shit like that.”   
  
“I didn’t think she did.” Uhura echoed the eyebrow-raise in a gesture to match his own. “She _does_ look like you.”   
  
“Guess she does. Sorry I didn’t introduce you.” He would’ve, if only he hadn’t been surprised, but that was the downside of a sneak attack. “If she calls again and you’re here, you’ll get the full intro.”   
  
“That sounds fair.” She smiled and reached over, tapping his PADD lightly. “You know, if we don’t study, we’ll probably both fail the next exam.”   
  
“All right.” He flipped it to another problem and started looking it over, unable to keep the giddy expression off his face. Yeah, he’d catch hell for it later, but he’d just talked to Jo for the first time in _months_.   
  
That was worth whatever the bitch would throw at him.


End file.
